


The Twelve Clues of Christmas

by prettysailorsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, Holidays, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, scavenger hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sends Sherlock on a Christmas scavenger hunt through London, and Sherlock doesn't ENTIRELY hate it, but where will they be at the end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelve Clues of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I wouldn't call them spoilers, but there are nods to the Sherlock mini-episode, as well as obvious references to series' 1 and 2.
> 
> A gift for Alyssa, forever my partner in crime.

Sherlock stomped down the corridor, his slippers slapping unceremoniously across the hardwood. “M’rning,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes as he hobbled into the kitchen, his legs heavy from the rest they were so unaccustomed to. He stopped just inside the doorway, his ragged, blue slippers stilling on the linoleum. “John?” he murmured to the empty kitchen, his eyes searching.

Their simple table—which John had insisted be cleared for the holidays to make room for all the company Sherlock didn’t want to have—was empty, bereft of even so much as a leftover teacup, and a quick glance at the coffee pot told him that had not been used either. Looking into the living room, he found John’s armchair empty, but wandered in anyway, ensuring the couch was just as barren.

John must have been awake at some point that morning, however, because the lights of the Christmas tree were aglow, covering the room in washes of color, and Sherlock was certain they had been off when he’d finally gone to bed. The white lights wrapped around the garland John had hung over the mantel “so the tree wouldn’t look so lonely” were also alight, but the flat was silent.

Sherlock held his breath a moment anyway, listening intently, but he was obviously alone. “Mrs. Hudson?” he tried instead. When nothing moved downstairs either, he concluded he was entirely alone, and on Christmas morning, no less. That was some sort of social faux pas, wasn’t it?

With a sigh, he sulked down into his armchair, his fingers twiddling restlessly against the leather as he tried to puzzle it out. Was John angry with him? No, surely not. He had wished him Happy Christmas when midnight glowed in on their mobiles, and the smile had been genuine. Everyone else of any interest had been at the Christmas Eve party yesterday afternoon, and there hadn’t appeared to be any lingering resentment. He could not have said the same of last year, though.

The first Christmas after his return had been one of the worst occasions of his entire life, surpassing even his 9th birthday party, when his parents had hired that god-awful hack of a magician. As much as he had pressed John _not_ to have the Christmas Eve party barely two months after his homecoming—and how could something possibly be a tradition after only one time, anyway?—his pleas had gone ignored, and the result was the longest stretch of awkward silence in recorded history, made only worse by John’s earnest attempts to corral everyone into party games. Mrs. Hudson had actually thrown the punch bowl ladle at him when the tension in the room finally reached the breaking point, and Sherlock had sat motionless, glaring daggers at John as everyone threw various insults and curses at him. Truly, the only positive about the entire affair was that it had been the last straw for John’s rather serious girlfriend Mary, which Sherlock tried to feel bad about, but really, she had been dreadfully boring.

No, it had definitely not been the best day of Sherlock’s life, but yesterday had been perfectly normal. So why was no one here?

Sherlock sighed, wracking his brain for possible explanations. Nibbling at his bottom lip with guilt, he wondered if perhaps he had taken his enmity toward Christmas a little too far, and finally discouraged John from making any fuss over it at all.

Contrary to popular belief—largely because he actively fed into the assumptions—Sherlock Holmes did not hate Christmas. He hated the commercialism, the extravagance, the way people twisted frigid temperatures and strings of gaudy plastic into something romantic, the insincere goodwill and cheer that spread so thick, he couldn’t even open a window without getting a carol-induced headache. Alright, maybe he did hate Christmas, or at least everything people generally associated with Christmas, but he did not hate Christmas with John.

The quiet mornings in front of the fire in their small world of Baker Street had become something Sherlock almost looked forward to, as much as he was loathed to admit it. He should have expected John would continue to surprise him, even in something as cliché as Christmas, but he had nevertheless been taken aback when he had come down the corridor that first Christmas back in the flat to find the living room full of boxes, all of various sizes and wrappings.

“All these boxes are empty except one,” John had grandly announced, standing proudly in the center of the jumble, wearing that horrid, Christmas jumper Sherlock kept forgetting to incinerate. “Without touching _any_ of them, you have to find it. Otherwise, I get to keep it.” His wicked grin still shone in Sherlock’s mind. “The game is on, Mr. Holmes!” he’d exclaimed, and then bolted away, barricading himself in the kitchen so as not to give away any hints with his facial expressions as Sherlock searched.

It was not necessarily—or even remotely—what one would consider a normal ritual, but it was theirs, and John had been trying to outdo himself for every occasion since.

Sherlock sat upright, the memory stirring something suspicious in him. He scanned the room more critically now, and his eyes settled on something on the mantel. Jumping to his feet, he snatched the silver envelope up, wrenching the card from its confines.

It was a Christmas card, a ridiculously tacky thing depicting Big Ben wearing a Santa hat, and Sherlock spared the image a scathing look before opening the fold. The white expanse inside was blank of a printed message, and he was, instead, greeted with John’s scratchy script.

_Twas the morning of Christmas, when all through the flat,  
not a creature was stirring, save one consulting prat._

“Really?” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head exasperatedly.

_The presents were absent, the flatmate disappeared,  
but you will find them both right here._

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. Well, this was an interesting development.

_So get dressed, bundle up, and follow the snow,  
because we’ve still got 11 clues to go!_

No way. There was no way he was going to get dressed and go out on some scavenger hunt through London _on Christmas_ , of all the hateful things, to humor John’s wild flight of fancy.

But what did he mean by ‘follow the snow’…?

“Dammit!” he exclaimed, clenching the letter in his fist as he tore from the room, racing down the corridor and grabbing clothes from his wardrobe. Taking the quickest shower of his life, he tugged his black pants over his legs, still sticky with humidity, and hastily buttoned the aubergine shirt he’d plucked from the drawer. His hair dry enough to not freeze, he threw on his suit jacket, slipping into his Belstaff and blue scarf as he lunged down the stairs. Standing on the pavement, he looked side-to-side across Baker Street. It wasn’t even snowing, how was he supposed to-

Oh. Well that was just brilliant.

Walking briskly—running would be undignified—to the right, he headed toward a main street, which was lined with obnoxious, glittering snowflakes lit up and hanging from every lamppost. He took a left as he reached the intersection, heading east, vaguely in the direction of the Thames, which he assumed was the point of the hideous illustration on the card. It was barely noon, and already the streets were bustling with people, all laughing far too loudly for his taste. After the 17th “Happy Christmas!” he had been forced to endure, he was seriously contemplating turning back, texting John, and giving it all up as a bad job, when the street ended, butting directly into a snow-dusted park. Regent’s Park, to be precise. That was important. Why was that important?

Sherlock’s forehead furrowed, and he angled his body toward the trees so no one would see him closing his eyes, his hands fluttering in front of him as he sorted through his mind palace.

_“It’s almost fate, ya know? Mike catching me that day in Regent’s. I might’ve never met you otherwise.”_

_“Fate is nothing but a child’s word for coincidence.”_

_“Oh, shove it, you know what I mean! I’m just saying I’m glad I met you, is all.”_

His eyes shot open, and his feet carried him along the path into the park. It wasn’t large, looking even sparser in the absence of leaves, and his grey eyes narrowed, flittering across the scene. There was no one there, of course, no one else being mad enough to go to the park at this time of year, and Sherlock relished the solitude, his steps slow as he continued his search forward. A splotch of bright red caught his eye, and he jogged toward it. Bending down, he snatched the envelope off a damp, wooden bench and ripped it open, too eager and alone to be embarrassed by his zeal.

_All the way back at the start,_  
 _now doesn’t that just warm your heart?_  
 _Probably not, but don’t be nervous._  
 _Just take the Baker to the southern Circus_

“John,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head as he smiled fondly. He twisted on the spot, running the rest of the way through the park, and then slowing as he entered back out onto the street. As quick as he could on the slick surface, he made his way down the stairs of the Regent’s Park tube station, feeding his pass into the machine and clattering through the gate. He could feel the Bakerloo line rumbling beneath him, and ran through the tunnel before nearly leaping down the stairs to catch the southbound train. He slipped through the doors just in time, panting in relief, and realized belatedly that he was grinning. With a quick, self-conscious glance around, he noted only two other people in the compartment, an older couple who were looking at him with concern. He smiled apologetically before sinking onto one of the benches near the door.

Piccadilly Circus was the second stop, one after Oxford Circus, and his shoe tapped impatiently on the floor of the train before the doors slid open with painful slowness. Then, he was off again, darting around the few people desperate enough to take public transit on a holiday and thrusting himself up the stairs into the afternoon light.

His nerves were buzzing with excitement, and he willed himself to breathe just slow enough to clear his head. Pulling up his mental map of London, he considered the options in the surrounding area. Sentiment was hardly his forte, but, considering the first stop, it was clear John’s clues would be relying heavily on his ability to tap into that barely exercised portion of his psyche, so what here had emotional significance? Why would John send him here, to Piccadilly, to SoHo, to Chinatown?

“No,” Sherlock breathed, eyes widening in disbelief, turning his head east. Surely not. But, then again, considering the locale, there was really no other option.

It wasn’t far to the Lucky Cat Emporium, and it was relatively quiet, all the windows shuttered and neon extinguished, and Sherlock worried in spite of himself that whatever John had intended would be thwarted by holiday hours. As his shoes crunched in the ice toward the red and gold building, however, his concern proved to be unfounded, as the shop was still open, apparently the only place on the street. The bell chimed over his head as he stepped inside, rubbing his hands together, regretting forgetting his gloves in his haste.

There was no envelope in sight, no note stuck to the door or hanging from the ceiling, and Sherlock looked around, his synapses prickling with the sensation of being watched. “Hello?” he called, his footfalls heavy and damp as he traveled inside, weaving through the shelves. Rounding one particular corner, he was met with a veritable army of lucky cats, arms glittering gold as they waved at him in disjointed rhythm. That would surely haunt his dreams next time he slept.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Only the years of suppressing his baser instincts kept him from jumping, but his eyes still shot open as he turned toward the voice.

A small woman he barely remembered stepped forward, looking every bit the villain from one of those ridiculous, Bond movies John had made him watch as she came out from the shadow of a shelf. She was smiling warmly, however, which somewhat shattered the illusion. “The other man said you would be coming today. He said to give you this.” She held out a box to him, a depiction of a lucky cat emblazoned on the sides, and another envelope—gold this time—resting on the top.

“No, we- I already have one of those,” he said, gesturing to the packaged cat.

The woman smiled sagely as she nodded. ”I know, Mr. Holmes, I remember you. You came back,” she said, and Sherlock suppressed a blush.

It was obvious he had bought it, considering John hadn’t and it had appeared in their flat, but John had never directly mentioned it, and hearing it stated so simply from a stranger’s mouth somehow made it much more humiliating.

“Please, take it,” she urged, bobbing the parcel toward him, and he held his hands out instinctively at the gesture. “All will become clear,” she added with a slow, deliberate nod.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at her retreating back, feeling as though he were back with the Buddhist monks. Rattling his head free of her cryptic words, he sat the box on the table with its unpackaged—and still waving—brethren as he opened the envelope.

_A souvenir from another life_  
 _(and that woman may think I’m your wife)_  
 _but this time you should share the bounty_  
 _with one who lives for Queen and country_

Sherlock’s laugh died in his throat as he got to the end of the riddle. He had walked through a park, ridden on the underground, _and_ been humiliated by a small, Chinese woman, but _this_ he could not abide. He pulled out his mobile, pressing down on the speed dial key he knew would be programmed. 1, voicemail; 2, John; and 3…

“I thought you would be a bit quicker than that.”

“I am _not_ bringing you a lucky cat.”

“Oh, thank god,” Mycroft sighed, the sound of paper crinkling in the background. “I already have that horrid, singing fish Anthea won’t let me get rid of; I couldn’t stand any more tacky, tourist chotchkies cluttering up my office.”

“Do you have an envelope for me?” Sherlock asked bluntly, gathering the lucky cat under his arm, not quite sure he was done with it yet, and moving out of the store.

“I do,” Mycroft replied, though he sounded slightly disappointed. He hadn’t been thinking they would actually _converse_ , had he? “How is your little adventure going, anyway?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed down at the pavement suspiciously, but he could never be entirely sure Mycroft couldn’t see him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t particularly,” Mycroft said, the shrug evident in his voice, but the insincerity was as well, “but John was rather excited about it. I’m just wondering if you’re playing along.”

“Why would it matter to you if I did or didn’t?”

Mycroft sighed tiredly, and Sherlock winced as the familiar sound scraped against his nerves. “I’m not overly fond of seeing John disappointed. He has such a sad face,” Mycroft explained, and it may have been intended as an insult, but Sherlock could hear the hint of softness in it.

Silence buzzed over the line as he failed to think of a response, and then there was the sound of tearing paper.

“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed, amusement with a touch of impressed. “Interesting.”

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped, gritting his teeth with anxious impatience.

“There are two cards. Well, I say cards. They’re really just torn pieces of notebook paper folded to vaguely resemble-”

“Mycroft.”

“One of them says ‘If he comes to see you’ on the front, the other, ‘If he just calls’.” Mycroft chuckled, and Sherlock glowered, probably unseen, the cat’s box creaking as his arm tightened around it. “He has learned, hasn’t he?”

“Just read it,” Sherlock snarled.

“Which one?” Mycroft chuckled again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing in frustration.

“The calling one, then,” he barked, waving his hand dismissively.

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, and there was another whisper of movement as the makeshift letter was unfolded. “Tut tut, Sherlock, that’s against the rules, and now, I fear, you’ll have to choose. Your gift can meet a Speedy end, or you can visit our entangled friend,” Mycroft recited. “And ‘speedy’ is capitalized, in case you were wondering.”

“Speedy’s café. I can take the cat to Mrs. Hudson. Obvious,” Sherlock muttered, pacing slightly in the deserted street.

“And your _entangled_ friend?” Mycroft inquired, and Sherlock relished the moment of superior knowledge.

“Molly. She’s engaged, as I’m sure you know-”

“Naturally.”

“-and I keep saying entangled rather than engaged. It’s driving John mad,” he added with no small amount of pride.

“Shocking,” Mycroft deadpanned, and the smug smile collapsed from Sherlock’s face. “I can’t imagine why your obvious disdain for sentimental attachment to other human beings would bother him so much.”

“What are you prattling about?” Sherlock snapped, his feet stalling in their back-and-forth progress.

“Nothing, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, but it was clearly anything but. “Forget I ever said anything. Do you want to hear the other clue?”

“The one for if I showed up?”

“That would be the other one, yes.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “Alright then, read it.”

Another shuffling of pages, and then a sound that made Sherlock fairly certain he was hallucinating.

Mycroft was… _laughing_! Properly laughing, the kind that Sherlock had not heard in…well, as long as he could remember, and he nearly dropped his phone in shock.

“What?” he asked urgently. “What does it say!?”

“Oh, he _does_ know you!” Mycroft laughed, sniffing a little as it died down. “It says: ‘Oh please, I know you’re not actually going to go.’”

Sherlock smiled at his own expense, looking down at the concrete beneath his feet. “Yes,” he mused. “Yes, I suppose he does know me.”

“And still, he remains,” Mycroft sighed mockingly. “Quite the masochist, your John.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, hardly regretting it at all when a little warmth leaked in.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. And Happy Christmas.” He was gone before Sherlock could reply.

He stared down at the mobile a moment longer, not entirely certain what had just happened, and then turned around, heading back toward the tube.

It took a couple train changes, and more than a few strange looks from fellow passengers as he carried his wares, but he made it to St. Bart’s in good time, slipping in the back door as he usually did. It was unlocked, which wasn’t necessarily an odd occurrence, but he got the feeling he was expected this time. Sure enough, Molly popped her head out from a laboratory mere seconds after the door shut behind him.

“I was hoping you’d come see me!” she chirped, practically skipping down the hall to him. “John told  me you’d have a choice, but I suppose I was closer than Baker Street. Is that it?” She pointed at the cat under his arm.

“Er, yes,” Sherlock murmured, sliding it out and passing it across, glad to be rid of the trinket. “Sorry, John- John _told_ you I’d be coming.”

“Oh yes, he’s been planning this for months. I’ve got your letter in my office,” she said, nodding back down the corridor as she turned away from him.

He followed after her, his mind reeling slightly. Months? John had been planning this for months? Well, he supposed he must have been, what with how intricate it was, but Sherlock couldn’t imagine why he would bother. It was so much effort, so much trouble. No one had ever gone to these sorts of lengths for him, why would John?

“Here we are,” Molly said, her cheerful tone breaking into his thoughts. She sat the cat on the edge of her desk, looking at it far too lovingly for a cheap, plastic trinket that could likely explode at any moment, and then walked around her desk, opening a drawer and handing him an envelope.

“Green,” Sherlock noted, forgetting, as he sometimes did, that he was thinking aloud.

“Sorry?” Molly asked, tilting her head at him.

“The envelope,” he clarified, waggling it in the air. “They’ve all been different colors.”

“Is that important?”

Sherlock shrugged, tugging the flap up and out. “Probably not, it merely seems like a lot of trouble for transport.”

Molly chuckled, and Sherlock looked up over the top of the half-opened letter. “I doubt envelopes were the hardest part.”

“No?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing as he scanned her face. She knew something, something about the endgame, and, as her mouth clamped shut, he knew it was something she wasn’t going to share.

“No,” she said firmly. “I mean, they’re only envelopes. What’s it say?” she asked, rushing over as he slid the white card from its holder.

“You don’t know?” Mycroft had seemed surprised, but Sherlock had assumed some of the participants would be let in on what their part was.

Molly shook her head. “No, he didn’t tell me. Didn’t want me giving anything away,” she added with a shy smile. “He said he didn’t mind me reading it, just not before you did.” The question was clear in her tone, as well as her pleading eyes, and Sherlock rolled his, lowering the card between them as he read aloud.

“’Four up and seven across. If you’re too late, it is your loss. Grading papers only takes so long, so quit your flirting and run along!’” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed down at the words, as if John could somehow pay for the jab through his handwriting.

Molly giggled briefly, and then her expression turned thoughtful, her mouth moving with unspoken words.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, a little disturbed by the image.

She turned to look up at him, an odd sort of wonder in her eyes. “Mike’s office,” she murmured. “It’s on the third floor.”

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide, and he spun, his coat billowing behind him. Remembering himself, and knowing John would bother him about it later if he didn’t, he turned back, grabbing Molly by the upper arms. “Thank you,” he said with a short nod, and she smiled, her shaking head the last thing he saw of her before darting away.

Mike would probably be leaving for lunch any minute now, so there was no time to wait for the lift.

He banged through the metal, stairwell door, clamoring up the concrete steps two at a time. Quite possibly setting some sort of land-speed record, Sherlock crashed into the third floor corridor. Seven across, seven across. Molly’s office was B103, so Mike’s would be…

Without prelude, he opened the door to 3110, eliciting a startled gasp from the occupant.

“Geesh, Sherlock!” Mike said, chuckling weakly as he grasped at his chest. “I thought you’d at least knock.”

“I was expected; it hardly seemed necessary,” he muttered, his fingers tapping anxiously against the drape of his coat. “Do you have a letter from John?” he blurted, unable to be cordial. He was nearly halfway through, and the anticipation was mounting.

Mike smiled, the same, soft, knowing he had seen in Molly’s eyes reflected in her fiancé’s face. “That he did,” Mike said brightly, moving far too slowly as he scraped open his desk drawer. “Here,” he said, sliding an envelope—orange, of course—across the desk.

Sherlock snatched it up, pretense be damned, and flicked it open, tearing the tab a little in the process.

_Before you go forward, you have to go back_  
 _to when everything you have was everything you lacked._  
 _Unscarred moments of black and white_  
 _before I ever learned how to fight._

He read it through once more, and then looked up to meet Mike’s inquisitive gaze. “Where does St. Bart’s keep their yearbooks?”

Mike coughed as they sifted through the boxes, stirring up dust, but Sherlock remained stoic, even as it stuck in his eyes. “Found it!” Molly exclaimed triumphantly, and Sherlock and Mike bolted from their respective piles to her side. “This was the year you said, right?” she asked, turning the box toward Mike.

“Yep!” he replied, and she beamed as he took it from her. As he placed it in Sherlock’s hands, however, the atmosphere in the room changed, and Mike shifted away to Molly’s side as she stood. “We’ll just…leave you to it,” he said softly, wrapping an arm around Molly’s shoulder. “Let us know if you need anything else.”

Sherlock nodded, Molly having already gotten one thank you today, and stared down at the worn, cardboard top of the box until he heard the records door close behind them. He then gently lifted it off, finding one yearbook placed atop the others, a yellow envelope sticking out from between the pages. He gingerly removed the old book, slipping his fingers beside the envelope and opening to the marked spot. His breath caught as he looked down, unmistakable eyes looking back at him, even in black and white.

On the pages were the last few graduates of the year, their names falling at the end of the alphabet. John’s face, smiling sheepishly, body language clearly uncomfortable, smiled up from the picture attached to his small bio.

Sherlock chuckled, reading through the ridiculous series of awards John had been given. Most likely to succeed, best smile, best eyes, and, not so ridiculous, valedictorian. “You never told me that,” he murmured, wincing as he realized he was doing it again, talking to John when he wasn’t there. Although, as much as John teased him, he actually seemed quite flattered, so perhaps Sherlock didn’t need to be trying to stop. He searched underneath, reading through John’s brief biography.

Best moment: _Playing rugby with my friends._

“You played rugby?” Sherlock asked incredulously. It spurned something in his brain, however. Maybe Lestrade and John had been talking about it? He should really pay more attention.

Most embarrassing moment: _Getting locked out of my apartment and then attacked by an elderly woman as I climbed up the fire escape._

Sherlock slapped a hand to his mouth to muffle the laugh that unexpectedly burst out. John was honest to a fault, even back then, it would seem.

If you weren’t in medical school: _I would want to be a police officer or some kind of private detective, so I could still help people._

Sherlock blinked down at the page, bringing it closer to his face to double check. John had never told him that either.

What’s next for you: _Finishing my training with the army as a field physician._

Sherlock gripped the edges of the book, seized with unexpected emotion. This John was so young, so innocent, so _whole_ , and Sherlock didn’t want him to go. He wanted to reach back in time, pluck him from these pages, and keep him from ever going to Afghanistan, from ever seeing the things that worked him into screaming fits at night, from feeling the pain that would scar his skin forever. He wanted to protect him, shield him, the way John was always doing for him, but would he be the same John without all of that hardship? Would he still be Sherlock’s friend? Or would he finally be able to see what Sherlock had known all along: John could do so much better.

Shaken by these thoughts he had no idea how to face, no prior data to refer to, he closed the book with a snap, opening the latest envelope with hands he could not stop from shaking. There were two cards, one much smaller than the other, and he removed that one first.

_I’m sorry this is sad, I just need you to know I always would’ve chosen this, and you wouldn’t have believed me if I’d just told you.  
So stop thinking you’re not enough._

Sherlock stared, his mouth falling open. What!? How could John possibly- Was he that transparent? Were those moments he spent watching, wondering at how someone so normal tolerated him for so long, wondering when he would inevitably leave, so obvious? He was so sure John hadn’t been looking. However John had figured it out, the small reassurance helped more than it had any right to, and Sherlock’s hands were steady as he removed the larger card.

_Mrs. Hudson won’t be pleased,_  
 _but you’ll have to wait to appease,_  
 _because, right now, you must embark_  
 _to my middle name’s park._

“Syllables, John,” Sherlock chided, but he was beaming in the darkness of the storage room. Rising to his feet, he brushed the dust off his trousers, replacing the lid on the box and hoisting it back up onto the shelf Molly had pulled it from. As he left the records room, weaving through the corridors and exiting from a side door, there was a lightness in his chest. Perhaps this was what ordinary people talked about, that strange euphoria that only came from cathartic sadness. It wasn’t so bad, really, being normal. At least, this one time.

It required another few trains before Sherlock was walking up from the station at St. James’ Park, and he immediately turned right, fairly certain of where this particular clue was leading him. Turning right again, he headed up Victoria St., the glittering glass walls of New Scotland Yard stretching up into the sky ahead of him. There wasn’t much Sherlock would consider John incapable of, but he doubted he would make him see Anderson and Donovan on Christmas, so he headed toward the Starbucks that was across the street from headquarters. Considering the location, it was open, and bustling with various rankings of officers.

Lestrade wasn’t difficult to spot, and Sherlock ducked his head, hiding into his collar and scarf to avoid unnecessary recognition. He had no time for small talk; he was on a Christmas scavenger hunt! Which sounded rather silly when he phrased it like that in his head.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade greeted, rising from the small table in the corner, spreading his arms wide.

Sherlock shot him a sharp look, but Lestrade only chuckled, letting his arms fall as he sat back into his chair, Sherlock scraping the opposite one out.

“Got you a coffee. Black with sugar,” Lestrade said, sliding the ceramic mug across wood, a sure sign that Sherlock was expected to linger.

He suppressed his groan into a hum he hoped conveyed gratitude as he lifted the cup to his lips.

“So, how’s the scavenger hunt going?”

“It’s not a scavenger hunt,” Sherlock countered, hating hearing it coming from someone else’s mouth.

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade chuckled, swallowing a swig of his own coffee as he readjusted in the chair, leaning back into a more relaxed position, another indication Sherlock wouldn’t be making a quick escape. “How’s…whatever you want to call this thing going, then?”

Sherlock shrugged indifferently, but averted his eyes, a mistake he should not have made in front of Lestrade.

Sure enough, the man smiled knowingly over the lip of his cup. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I was a little worried you wouldn’t play along.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Sherlock snapped, his cup hitting the table a little harder than meant. “What am I, some kind of Christmas-hating monster bent on destroying everyone’s hopes and dreams?”

“The Grinch?” Lestrade supplied.

Sherlock tilted his head, his eyebrows furrowing. “Are you just making up words?”

Lestrade stared at him blankly for a moment, and then burst into laughter, having to sit his coffee down to avoid spilling it. “No, it’s-it’s a story. A book by Dr. Seuss.”

Sherlock’s face wrinkled further as he shook his head.

“Never mind,” Lestrade chuckled, raising a hand to dispel the conversation. “Basically, yes, people probably thought you’d be a bit of a Scrooge about it.”

Sherlock nodded. Dickens, he hadn’t deleted. “Why?” he asked, hooking his coffee back up with two, long fingers. “I mean, I’m not exactly running around singing Jingle Bells in the streets with a group of wandering vagabonds-”

“Carolers, Sherlock.”

“-but I wouldn’t just ignore something like this,” he concluded, taking another, long drink and bearing the scalding in favor of haste.

“Well, Sherlock, you gotta admit,” Lestrade chuckled, somewhat wary as he leaned over the table, placing his elbows on the surface, “you don’t exactly seem the type to be terribly receptive to a Christmas scavenger hunt.”

“It’s not a scavenger hunt,” he muttered again, the words half-drowned as he spoke into his mug.

“It’s also not like you.” Lestrade countered, but he looked more happy than concerned. “I think I speak for everyone when I say I thought you’d go on a rampage at the mere suggestion of something like this.”

“It’s different.”

“Why?”

“It’s John.”

The words hung between them, their eyes locked in mutual surprise, and then Lestrade slowly smiled.

“Yeah,” he said softly, nodding, dewy pride spreading over his face, “it is.”

Sherlock looked down into his coffee, his lips parted and shifting around confused breaths as his eyes darted aimlessly, swirling with his thoughts. Lestrade was right, he should hate this. The very idea of it should make him ill with sentiment, and yet, here he was, practically shaking to get the next clue and be on his way. What had changed? Although, he supposed, he’d already answered that question.

“Suppose you want this,” Lestrade said, reaching into an interior pocket of his jacket and pulling out a purple envelope. He pushed it across the table with his fingertips, but Sherlock did not reach for it immediately.

He stared down at the vibrant color, a frantic, fluttering sensation he was starting to get used to filling his chest. Looking up, he swallowed hard, and Lestrade’s mouth twitched with a smile. Sherlock stood, sliding the envelope into his pocket as he turned around. He didn’t think he could bear to see that look in Lestrade’s eyes even long enough to respond, that same look Mike and Molly had had, the look that made him feel as if he had something written on his forehead and everyone could see it, but no one would tell him.

Leaning against the wall outside the coffee shop, he lolled his head back to the rough concrete, staring up at the sky. His fingers wrapped around the edges of the card in his pocket, and he closed his eyes, crushing his eyelids together. After a moment, he opened them, giving in to whatever it was that was churning in his stomach and revealing clue 8.

_The sun is starting to drift low,_  
 _and you’re probably hungry, but won’t let it show,_  
 _so head to where you made me able,_  
 _and don’t forget a candle for the table._

Sherlock chuckled, rolling his eyes to the sky at the syllables, but it mattered so little, he’d probably hardly tease John about it at all when this was all over. Would John be there at the end of this? He hadn’t thought about it, too wrapped up in the pieces to think about the complete picture, and his stomach bottomed out as he hailed a cab.

“Northumberland Street,” he said as he fell into the back, his voice surprisingly strong considering the lump in his throat.

What was he going to say? What was he supposed to do? He didn’t get John a present, he never got John a present, and here he was on an all-day adventure John had painstakingly planned, and he had _nothing_ to give him at the end of it. There were serial killers he would rather go another round with than walk into that situation, but he had no choice. No doubt Lestrade had already told John Sherlock had left, meaning that Angelo would be expecting him. There was simply no time for shopping, no time to do anything about it now. He would just have to hope John would take an apology as present enough, although, he probably would, and Sherlock imagined that would just make him feel worse.

Ten minutes of fidgeting worry later, Sherlock was stepping out onto a rapidly darkening street, lights already illuminating as the winter sunset crept over late afternoon. “Wait here,” he ordered the cabbie, and the man grunted in agreement as Sherlock stepped into Angelo’s.

“Sherlock!” The robust man bustled forward, grabbing Sherlock’s hand from his side and shaking it vigorously in both of his own. “How have you been? I don’t see you in months, and then your John walks in asking for a favor? Hardly good manners,” he playfully scolded, and then laughed heartily, slapping Sherlock’s upper arm.

Sherlock managed a weak chuckle, his discomfort at the contact overwhelmed by the warm twisting in his chest at the possessive title. ‘Your John’. His John. It wasn’t as unbearable a sentiment as he thought it would be.

“I have your food all ready. Wait here,” Angelo continued, and Sherlock nodded, happy he wouldn’t have to do much talking in this encounter.

He put his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, his eyes involuntarily drifting to the empty table by the window.

_“You’re unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good.”_

_“John, um... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and, while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anyone-.”_

The corner of his mouth twitched at the memory, and it hit him hard there, in that moment, just how much things had changed. Well, maybe not the things. The table was the same, the view was the same, even that one chair that had a slightly shorter back, left leg was the same. No, it was them that had changed.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had happened, but something had shifted in the year since Sherlock had returned, something important he couldn’t quite capture in language. It was in the touches that lingered on his shoulder when John leaned over to read a case file, and the creaking footsteps across the floorboards that delivered a hot cup of tea to his nightstand while he was in the shower. It was in the gradually more passive-aggressive passwords he kept guessing, and the way John only put up a token argument about it afterwards. It lingered in the air around the quiet moments, the just-a-bit-too-long gazes across crime scenes and work parties they both skipped out on as quickly as possible, running down the street before the liquor-loosened receptionist noticed her prey had fled. It was new and strange, and yet the most comfortable Sherlock had ever felt, and he was absolutely terrified.

“Here ya are!” Angelo chorused, and Sherlock turned, a reflexive smile plastered on his face. “Your letter’s in there too,” he added with a wink.

Sherlock knew he failed to hide the blush that time, so he went for a quick exit. “Cheers,” he muttered, half to the door as he left, and Angelo’s chuckling followed him back to the cab.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked over his shoulder.

“Just a moment,” Sherlock replied, pushing the plastic utensil bags aside and fishing out a black envelope, which may have been a bad omen had it come from anyone else.

_Now that you have got the food,_  
 _I’m sure the rest you can conclude._  
 _Turn around and head back home,_  
 _I’ve nowhere else for you to roam._

“221B Baker Street,” he said to the cabbie, never being so happy to say those words in his life.

It was a long 12 minute ride, and he may have hit the driver in the face with the money he threw at him, but he got the key into the lock on the third attempt and dove into the foyer, the Italian food banging against the doorway as he went. He hadn’t known he had been expecting John to be there until he wasn’t, and a pang of palpable, cold disappointment rushed through his body.

“Sherlock?”

He lifted his head as the only other person he would have tolerated seeing right now came into view.

Mrs. Hudson was positively beaming, but he only caught a glimpse of it before her arms were around him, her face buried in his chest. “Oh, my boys!” she said, her voice strangled with oncoming tears. “I’m so proud of you! About time, too,” she added, punctuating it with a light slap to his arm.

He looked down at her, his eyebrows creasing. “What are you-”

She held out an envelope—pink, he really should have guessed—to silence him, and he begrudgingly allowed it to work, dexterously taking it and flipping it open with his free hand.

_A long, long day, but I swear,_  
 _you really are almost there._  
 _Just up the stairs and through the door,_  
 _like you’ve done a thousand times before._

Had they been sucked into a vacuum? There was no air in here. Why was there no air in here!?

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her eyes frantic with concern as she moved into his eye line. “Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong?”

It took him a moment to realize the weak, cracked voice he heard was his. “I can’t,” he wheezed, shaking his head as it pounded to his heartbeat. “I-I can’t. I-I don’t-”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson cut in, swift and stern, and his attention snapped to her. Her face imbued encouragement, and he felt his heart slow just a little under her reassuring gaze. “You don’t have to understand this. You don’t have to make sense of it. You just have to _feel_ , and then you just have to speak. And you can do that. You, my boy,” she said, her eyes rippling as she placed a tender hand to his cheek, “can _do_ this.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up toward the shadowed top of the stairs, and before he knew he was going to, he was voicing the thing he had been struggling with since the moment he met John, the thing that lurked in the corners of his mind, creeping up and threatening to swallow him in the quiet hours of the night when he wasn’t careful enough to keep it in its cage.

“What if he leaves?”

Mrs. Hudson cradled his chin in her hands, gently pulling his face to meet her eyes. “Sherlock,” she said, smiling fondly, “you disappeared for over a year. If _that_ didn’t scare him off, nothing will.”

“But-”

“No,” she interrupted, fingers slipping from his cheek so one could point fiercely at him. “No buts. Now go!” she snapped, giving his chest a half-hearted shove. “You’ve kept that boy waiting long enough.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Oh, like you don’t know what I mean,” she muttered irritably, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “I’m going out to the super,” she said, walking to the hanging rack on the wall and tugging away her long, grey coat. “Don’t stand down here having a panic attack for too long, love,” she teased, sending a wink over her shoulder as she opened the door, tugging her knitted, purple hat over her ears before disappearing in a click of the lock.

Sherlock glared at the wood. That was ridiculous; he wasn’t having a panic attack. Just because his heart was palpitating and his vision was blurry and there still wasn’t any air in here didn’t mean it was a panic attack. He was just being affected by the Italian food fumes rapidly filling up the foyer. Obvious. It really was getting rather unbearable, though, his suppressed hunger starting to gnaw at him with every inhale of gnocchi, so he started up the stairs. He winced as he hit the creaking floorboards, distraction temporarily blocking the memory of which steps to avoid, but it wasn’t as if John didn’t know he was coming anyway.

John. _John._

He stopped on the last step. Okay, _this_ might be a panic attack, but it wasn’t when Mrs. Hudson had said it, so she was still technically wrong. Just as the hyperventilating started, his eyes met a white envelope stuck at eye level to the glass pane in the door. If only for a distraction, he snapped away the tape, sitting the food temporarily on the landing as he read.

_I’m sure you’ve figured the next part out_  
 _but so there isn’t any doubt,_  
 _you can still turn around and run_  
 _like none of this was ever done._

Mere seconds ago, every muscle in Sherlock’s body was taut, coiled and ready to spring as far away from this moment as he could possibly get, but somehow, being confronted with the choice by John’s, jagged scrawl, he couldn’t imagine doing it. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to pretend none of this had happened, to go back to pretending _nothing_ was happening, because, the truth was, Sherlock Holmes did hate Christmas.

He hated the bells and the snow and the singing and the colors and the trees that shed all over everything, and he knew with a clarity usually reserved for crime scenes that the only thing that made any aspect of the holiday bearable was John. The only thing that made _anything_ bearable was John.

Sherlock hated his birthdays, and then John made him an Anderson piñata, paint and pieces of newspaper sticking to the glue residue on his hands for days. Sherlock hated New Year’s, and then John got drunk and insisted they watch James Bond, mumbling along in the worst Sean Connery impression Sherlock had ever heard. Sherlock hated the office parties Lestrade always dragged him to, and then John started coming along, muttering ridiculous deductions about the guests under his breath while Sherlock choked into his punch. Sherlock hated doing the shopping, and then John hated it more, shouting profanities at chip-and-PIN machines until Sherlock had to physically grab him by the elbow and pull him from the store. Sherlock, now that he was being honest with himself, had never been particularly fond of anything, but he was so incredibly, painfully, _terrifyingly_ fond of John, it seemed to have spilled over, making every activity that included him tolerable by association. He was only ashamed it had taken him so long to notice.

221B was much the same as when he had left, the living room softly aglow with multicolored strands, but, even though he couldn’t see anyone, he could sense he wasn’t alone in that warm, comfortable way that meant his subconscious had somehow identified John’s presence. He opened his mouth, but no call came out, and he sat the bag of takeaway on the corner of the coffee table in silence. It was then he noticed the note, void of an envelope—John had probably run out of colors—and sitting atop what, upon inspection, proved to be a DVD.

_If you’re certain, and you’d better be,_  
 _there’s something that you need to see._  
 _But, again, just so we’re clear,_  
 _there is no going back from here._

It was the easiest decision of his life to cross the room, placing the disc into the tray and perching on the edge of his armchair.

Crackling, white static appeared, filling the room with wobbly light, and then the walls of Baker Street came into focus, a camera clearly having been set up on the table behind him to film the couch.

“Right,” a familiar voice muttered, and there was a rustling of clothes. Legs and a torso came into view, an oatmeal-knit-clad arm setting a small glass of whiskey on a coaster as the rest of John flopped down onto the sofa with a sigh. “Hi,” he said with a small wave, the following frown making it clear he regretted that gesture. “Ella told me I should do this. Said it would help me…sort things out.” He shrugged, rolling his eyes to the ceiling skeptically. “But you did make me that video when you missed my birthday party, so I guess we’re even. Although you were probably just avoiding the party and not actually busy.”

Sherlock chuckled as John smiled weakly, but both died as John sighed, swallowing hard down at the ground.

“It’s Christmas. As you can probably hear,” he said with false cheer, lifting a hand to wave past his head. “Actually, I should probably-” He trailed off, rising from the couch. A moment later, the music that had been playing softly in the background ceased. “Neighbors are playing the radio rather loud. I closed the window, but I’m not sure it helped much. Maybe you can’t hear it anymore, at least,” he shrugged, and then huffed a faint laugh out his nose as he shook his head. “You always hated this song,” he mumbled, lifting a finger as if to point to the sound. “Said it was ‘needy and repetitive’,” John recited with a chuckle. He then hummed vaguely, nodding his head side to side, his voice coming in clearer for a line Sherlock recognized. “Baby, please come home,” he half-sang, and then chuckled again, Sherlock smiling along.

John sighed again, licking his lips. “Ya know, it’s odd,” he said, looking back into the camera again. “You weren’t there for all the Christmases of my entire life, and then we have one here, and now...it feels so wrong to have it without you.” He laughed again, but this time, the sound only made Sherlock ache. “I thought you’d be back by now,” he said, his voice rising before he cleared his throat, and Sherlock winced. “I mean, I know you don’t care much for Christmas, but… I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought,” he murmured, dropping his face into his hands for a moment.

He stayed staring at the floor, breathing deeply for a while before shaking his head with a short, frustrated growl. “This is mad. I-I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he muttered quickly, his body a mess of shrugs and twitches as he looked anywhere but the camera. He stilled, his eyes seeming to focus on something near the window. “No, no, I do,” he said, firmer now, resolve evident in his face as it met the lens again. “I do. Ya see, Sherlock,” he began, knitting his fingers together in front of him as he arms dangled off his knees, “there are things I never said, things I _should_ have said, and-and I’m going _mad_ with them spinning around in my head, imagining all these conversations that will probably never-” He stopped with a rattling sigh, and Sherlock blinked away the blur from his eyes.

“I know I used to take the mickey out of you for talking to me when I wasn’t there,” John continued, a fond but faint, smile gracing his lips, “but now that you’re gone-” He cracked on the word, swallowing hard. “God, Sherlock, I do it all the time,” he murmured, shaking his head as if in disbelief as he looked into the camera, his eyes glistening. “Because I should have told you more. I-I should have told you every time you were brilliant, and I should have gone with you to that _stupid_ mold exposition at the science museum, and I shouldn’t’ve had such a fit about the body parts in the fridge, but, really, could you not have at least _wrapped_ the hands before you put them in with the produce?”

Sherlock barked a small laugh, the backs of his fingers lightly pressing over his mouth as his vision swam.

John chuckled through a breath, a closed smile lingering. “God, you made me crazy,” he half-laughed, and then licked his lips, his forehead wrinkling. “But I- Christ, Sherlock, I wish you were still here,” he breathed, the words stuttering as his face pinched, tears brimming on his lower eyelids. “I wish I was still woken up at 3am to send a text because you couldn’t leave an experiment, or called away from a date on an S.O.S. because you lost your bloody scarf, or…everything. Anything. Every single, _infuriating_ thing you do, I wish you were still here doing it, because I don’t know who I am anymore without someone putting heads in the fridge.”

A few tears broke free to roll down Sherlock’s face, but he was comforted that he wasn’t the only one.

John wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “I don’t know who I am without you,” he squeaked, hazily shaking his head into the camera. “It was supposed to be forever. I was supposed to send your texts and dig under the couch for your scarf and shout at you for leaving eyeballs in the microwave when I try to reheat Chinese takeaway for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock stared, John’s shuddering exhale the only sound, his own heart even stopping as he listened.

“Because, the truth is, Sherlock…as mad as it is—and it is _completely_ mad—“, he interjected with a pointed nod, “somewhere along the line, in spite of _everything_ you do that makes me want to strangle you… I accidentally fell in love with you.”

Grey eyes widened as blue ones lifted, and he would swear John was actually looking into him from two years in the past, his stomach flipping into his throat.

“Which is absolutely ridiculous, because you are, without a doubt, the most _insufferable_ person on the face of this planet. So much so, in fact, that you had to go and also be the most amazing, you git,” John muttered, his eyebrows pulling together in a glare, but his mouth smiled. “I never stood a chance,” he sighed dramatically, and Sherlock chuckled. John sucked in his bottom lip, scraping it out against his teeth. “So, you have to come back,” he continued, command in his eyes as he firmly met the lens, “because, if you’re going to make me fall in love with you, you should at least have to answer for it.”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head down at the floor.

John smiled—pained, but still fond—and then the image froze, John’s face covered by rippling, horizontal lines.

Sherlock stood, spinning on the spot, the feeling of being watched suddenly sneaking up on him.

John—real John, not-just-a-head John, horrible-red-Christmas-jumper-wearing John,—leaned against the living room doorway, his ankles crossed and a remote in his descending hand.

“I didn’t hear you,” Sherlock said, breathy with surprise.

John shrugged as best he could with one shoulder pressed against the doorframe. “I was quiet,” he murmured.

“I was distracted,” Sherlock countered.

John smiled, his eyes grazing over the floor as he pushed off the wood. “If you like,” he conceded softly, the toes of one sock-covered foot flicking at the frayed edges of the rug.

Sherlock swallowed. He should say something, he knew he should say something, but this wasn’t his area, he’d told John that. John handled the whole, discussing-emotions thing when they were dealing with victims’ families and such, why should this be any different? Because it was, of course. Just like everything was with John.

“Should I move?” John asked, anxiety pinching at his features even as he smiled playfully.

“Why?” Sherlock replied, and why could he not stop sounding so taciturn!?

“So you can bolt,” John clarified. He took a large step to the right, sweeping his arms over in invitation. “You can, ya know. Case I didn’t make that clear.”

“You did.” He really needed to start using more syllables, but his tongue was incapacitated.

“Good,” John said with a sharp nod, his gaze drifting around the room. “That’s…that’s good.”

“Why?” Sherlock murmured, forcing his lips to move.

John tilted his head, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why is it good?”

“No, why do you love me?”

John’s mouth parted as azure eyes widened and blinked. “Sorry?”

“You heard me,” he muttered, and John took a half-step backward as Sherlock surged toward him. “Why do you love me? You answer all the messages to the site, even the inane ones. You actually _went_ to the neighbors’ anniversary party. You put out that _ghastly_ sculpture of the naked cherub Mrs. Hudson got us every time she comes for supper. So why? Why do you love me?”

John was shaking his head dazedly, leaning back as Sherlock’s ranting grew more fevered. “I-I don’t understand.”

Sherlock growled in frustration, twisting and beginning to pace up-and-down the living room. “You’re _good_ , John! You remember birthdays and coo at babies and help old women across the street-”

“One time! And she had groceries!”

“-and just care, John! You care! And I can’t get through a single conversation without someone wanting to punch me.”

“I don’t _always_ want to punch you.”

“You’re not listening!” Sherlock exclaimed, stopping halfway across the room, his voice desperately imploring. “You could have so much _better_! You could have anything! You could find someone who didn’t leave fingers in the freezer or sabotage your dates-”

“I knew it!”

“-or experiment with your hair gel-”

“You _what_!?”

“I didn’t mention that?”

“No!”

“Oh well, it looks better now anyway. The _point_ is,” he said, raising his voice as John made to interrupt, “I’m nothing like you. You’re so good, and I’m…not. I’m just not, and I never will be, and I will _keep_ putting appendages in the fridge and waking you up to send text messages and experimenting on your possessions without consent, because that is who I am, and you can’t fix me, John. No matter how good you are, you can’t fix me, and I will never, _ever_ be good enough for you to-”

“Stop.”

He did, obeying John’s Captain-Watson voice instinctively, an irritating reaction he was working on eliminating.

John was calm, shaking his head softly as he approached. “Just stop. I told you, I told you not to think like that.”

“But it’s true!” Sherlock argued, his arms flinging outward as he insisted. “I _left_ you! I jumped off a building and left you, and you- you-” He waved a hand toward the television, unable to even remotely articulate when he had just seen. He sighed, wilting as the real question he was asking slipped from his lips. “Why would you want me?”

Ever-surprising, John chuckled, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to him, concerned for his sanity. “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathed, practically beaming.

His pale cheek buzzed as John’s warm, rough fingers rested on the skin.

“As always, you _see_ , but you do not observe,” he said, his grin moving out of focus as he stretched upward.

It wasn’t actually possibly for ones heart to burst out of their chest, but empirical evidence failed to explain the feeling as John’s lips pressed against his. Rough and chapped, but warm, they didn’t move so much as touch, but Sherlock’s mind was already abuzz with details. Dark ale, but it must have been earlier in the day, because the earl grey tea and Bounty bar overshadowed the lingering alcohol. He’d been at Mrs. Hudson’s relatively recently, still smelling faintly of her perfume, and had switched lip balms again, obvious from the peppermint overtones as opposed to-

“Shut up,” John murmured against his lips as he pulled back slightly, and Sherlock had to wait for the shiver to run its course through his spine before replying.

“I didn’t say anything,” he whispered, meaning it to sound much more affronted than the choked words that came out.

“You were thinking,” John answered, and Sherlock sucked in his discarded carbon dioxide. “It’s annoying,” he finished, playfully irritable in the quotation as a wicked grin spread across his face.

Whatever biting retort Sherlock was sure he was just about to come up with was lost as John’s lips returned to his, and all deductive reasoning vanished, exploding into stardust that flashed on the interiors of his eyelids. Then John shifted against his lips, and he must have blacked out, because suddenly his hand was in blond hair, and he had no idea how it got there. Nor did he have any idea when John had tangled himself in his hair, lightly tugging at the roots in a way that sent tiny, shivering pulses down Sherlock’s neck as his other hand came to rest at the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, fingertips just stretching beyond the fabric and onto skin. When they couldn’t bear it any longer, they pulled apart, Sherlock cursing the body’s petty, boring need for oxygen as they gasped.

John chuckled, his fingers twisting in Sherlock’s curls in a way that made it terribly difficult to focus on anything else. “You’re not half bad at that,” he teased, smirking.

Sherlock shrugged, a noncommittal hum in his throat. “You’re acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” John repeated, falsely scandalized. “I demand a recount!”

“Need more data,” Sherlock muttered, and then he leaned in, because, apparently, he was going to make jokes _and_ initiate physical contact now. What else was John going to change?

“Wait, wait,” John breathed, pulling away, and Sherlock glared white fury at him. “This is stupid. Here.” He took Sherlock’s hand, something else the detective found he didn’t mind, and led him around the coffee table before giving his arm a sharp tug.

Sherlock collapsed onto the couch with a muffled yelp, and then John was sitting beside him, laughing as he cupped Sherlock’s face and pulled it to his.

Why had Sherlock thought kissing was a waste of time, again? He couldn’t remember. He may have miscalculated slightly on that particular conclusion.

He reached up into John’s hair again, and the doctor imitated the gesture, fingers pressing into Sherlock’s skull as he held him tightly to his lips. John’s tongue slipped against his bottom lip, and Sherlock gasped into the kiss.

John seized the opportunity, and then everything was a blur of heat and tea as muscles tangled for dominance, the attached bodies slowly shifting to horizontal. “We need a bigger couch,” John muttered, the words all blending together.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, and then lifted his head to close the separation.

John dislodged with a small click. “Did you just agree with me?” he asked, looking dumbfounded. “Just like that? No snide remarks?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, irritable with impatience, and attempted to tug John back down, but the man planted his hand into the couch, holding himself firmly aloft.

He smirked, and then gradually broke into a sun-shaming grin.

“What?” Sherlock whined, tugging a bit at John’s hair.

“Nothing,” John chirped, shaking his head. “You’re just awfully compliant when you’re being snogged. Should’ve done this years ago.”

“I am not, and yes, you should have,” he answered as quickly as he could, and then buckled John’s arm with a shift of his shoulder, collapsing the man back to his mouth.

The kisses gradually grew lazy, eventually replaced by simple smiling as John rested on Sherlock’s chest, his chin balanced on one hand while the other traced shifting patterns across Sherlock’s brow and cheeks.

“I could ask you the same question, you know,” he said after a while.

“What question?” Sherlock replied, absentmindedly grazing his fingertips along John’s arm in front of him.

John shifted, propping himself up by his elbows on either side of Sherlock as he looked down. “Why would you want me?” he answered, addressing the top button of Sherlock’s shirt as he swirled figure eights across the purple fabric, the suit jacket discarded some time ago.

Sherlock lifted an arm, grabbing John’s hand and stilling it against his chest.  “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“No, of course not. I just love a good self-esteem joke.”

“John,” Sherlock said, shifting upright, John pulling his hand away as he lifted to sitting beside him, “you- You’re-” He stopped, searching for the words in John’s eyes, which blinked, curious and expectant. “You made me like Christmas.”

John’s forehead creased, his head tilting minutely in confusion, and then he laughed, falling back against the couch cushions as he clutched at his stomach. “Well, good, because it was a lot of work!” he exclaimed, pointing scoldingly at Sherlock, as if he better appreciate the efforts or else. “Don’t know how I’m gonna top it next year, though.”

“No idea,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head as he shrugged. “You’ll probably have to propose.”

John’s eyebrows seemed to be trying to take off from his forehead, his mouth popping open in shock, and Sherlock was just starting to feel the beginning creeping of dread that that had been more-than-a-bit not good when John burst into giggles again. “Geez, Sherlock! At least buy me dinner first or something!”

Without a word, Sherlock leaned forward, snatching the bag from Angelo’s off the table and dangling it between them as he lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

John looked at the bag, and then chuckled, shaking his head. “Well then,” he said, his warm smile lit even further as his face caught the Christmas lights, “I guess we’re off to a pretty good start.”


End file.
